Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [92]
The explosion had wrecked the control panel, but the opposite door was still intact. Since it would open only to the thermal code of someone it knew, they could either blast through into the library or wait for someone to blast through to them. Jerry knew that armed men would definitely be waiting in the library.
The other members of the expedition were unhooking their ropes and dropping them to the floor. It was unlikely they would be leaving by the same route, and therefore they wouldn’t need the ropes again. Jerry pondered the problem as Miss Brunner squeezed into the room and studied the wreckage of the panel.
Her big eyes looked up at him quizzically. “A nice little board; and this is only a minor control panel?”
“Yes. There’s a large roomful in the cellars—the main console. That’s got to be our objective, as I told you.”
“You did. What now?”
Jerry smoothed the hair at the side of his face. “There’s an alternative to waiting for them. We could try the bazooka. But there’s another door behind this one, and I doubt if a rocket would go through them both. If it didn’t, we’d get the worst of the explosion. They must be waiting there—probably with a grenade thrower or a big Bren or something. It’s stalemate for the moment.”
“You should have anticipated this.” Miss Brunner frowned.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t think of it,” Jerry said with a sigh.
“Someone else should have.” She turned to look accusingly at the others.
Dimitri was kneeling beside Mr. Powys, trying to revive him.
“Not for Mr. Powys,” said Mr. Crookshank, unable to restrain a slight smile. “The LSD always gets you in the end, eh?”
“You, too,” he said. “Looks as if poor old Mr. Powys has had it.”
“I thought it had been too easy,” said Mr. Smiles.
“I’ve got it.” Jerry looked up. Over the door was a metal panel, secured by wing nuts. He pointed to it. “Air conditioning. A grenade thrower, a single neurade and a good eye should do the trick if the grille at the other end isn’t closed.”
He put his hand on the arm of a big South African. “You’ll do. I’ll stand on your shoulders. Hang on to my legs when the recoil comes. Who’s got a grenade attachment?”
One of the Belgians handed him the attachment. He fitted it to the automatic rifle and detached the ammunition clip. The Belgian handed him a different clip. He fitted this to the rifle, too. Then he took a neurade out of his pocket and popped it into the thrower’s basket.
“Someone give me a hand up,” he said. One of the British mercenaries helped him climb onto the South African’s broad shoulders. He pushed back the metal panel and began to bash in the wire grille with the gun butt. He could see down the pipe to where the lights of the library shone. He heard muted voices.
Shoving the rifle into the pipe, he put it to his shoulder. The space between the fan blades was just big enough. Now if the neurade wasn’t deflected by the grille at the other end, which wasn’t likely, they’d have a chance of getting the guards there in silence and have time to blast open the doors with small charges of explosive before anyone realized that the detachment in the library was out of action.
He squeezed the trigger. The neurade shot down the pipe, was missed by the fan blades, and burst through the grille.
He smiled as voices at the other end shouted in surprise. He heard dull thumps and knew that the neurade had exploded. Then he started to lose his footing on the South African; half-jumped, half-fell to the ground; and handed the Belgian’s gun back to him.
“Okay, let’s get these doors open. Hurry. And keep your mouths closed again.”
The charges burst both locks, and they were through. On the floor of the library beside an overturned machine-gun three Germans jerked limply, mouths in rictus grins, eyes full of tears, muscles and limbs contorted as the gas worked on their nerves. It seemed a mercy to bayonet them; so they did.
They tumbled out of the library and into the ground-floor hall as the ceiling suddenly rose and the walls